


Like A Snowfall

by starwarned



Series: Carry On Countdown 2020 [25]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: COC 2020, COC Day 27, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2020, Carry On Countdown 2020 (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown Day 27, CoC, DAY 27 - Snowstorm, Domestic Fluff, Established Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Fluff, M/M, Thinking, literally just so much thinking, snowstorm, soft, they are.... husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28190517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starwarned/pseuds/starwarned
Summary: Carry On Countdown Day 27 - Snowstorm“Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person” - Sylvia PlathSimon thinks about what it's like to love Baz Pitch.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown 2020 [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026942
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2020





	Like A Snowfall

**Author's Note:**

> this is a chaotically written love letter to baz, basically. I adore you, you little vampire man.

Baz always says I’m like the sun. I think he means more when I was just as fucking hot as the sun — full of magic threatening to burst out of me and light everything near me on fire, but he insists I’m  _ still  _ like the sun. Bright and warm and  _ too much  _ (Baz says that’s a compliment, but it’s hard to take it as one most of the time). Like the sun in different ways.

Still, the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m important. Maybe not sun-level-important, but needed. Necessary. Like he likes having me around. When we were in America, I feel like he never stopped looking at me like that. Which, I think, was a lot for me then. I like it now. I can’t get enough of it.

I’ve been thinking a lot recently ( _ shocking, I know _ ) about how it feels to love Baz. I do. Love Baz, that is. A whole lot. He’s one of the four things in my life worth waking up for. The other three are Penny, Shep, and the buttered scone that Baz sets out for me every morning. So maybe that last one is just also Baz. Fine, I have three things in my life worth waking up for. And Baz Pitch is the top of the list.

Baz isn’t warm (both literally and figuratively). He isn’t always smiling or excited. He’s quite surly sometimes. And still throws glares and sneers around like it’s absolutely effortless. Second nature. 

Loving Baz Pitch is like being in the center of a snowstorm (ironic, I guess, because he still calls me Snow sometimes after all these years). It’s cold, wet, chaotic, and you’ll certainly get layers of snow on your shoes, but there’s also something so peaceful about it. There’s a stillness in my heart when I think about how much I love him. A quietness. 

As far as I know, snowstorms aren’t loud. I’ve always thought that snow tends to deafen sounds so I imagine snowstorms wouldn’t be roaring or anything like that. I haven’t exactly been in one before but I can imagine what it’s like. And Shep’s been in plenty so he’s described them to me before. 

I think I used to consider Baz as an unchangeable but unpredictable part of my life. He would flit in and out of it while we were at school, but never did I stop thinking about him. Not thinking about him was absolutely impossible no matter how hard I tried. He would either treat me with ice cold glares and perfectly curated insults or I’d catch him looking at me during class with the softest look in his eyes. (I always thought that was his plotting face — turns out, it was his I’m-hopelessly-in-love-with-you-but-I-won’t-say-anything-and-will-continue-to-insult-you face.) 

It gave me whiplash. Like winds rushing around me at full speed, causing my hair to whip around my face and my cheeks to sting. 

And even when we started dating — when we kissed in the middle of a fire of his own design and then again on his bedroom floor and then again and again and again, he was cold to me. I think he was afraid I would change my mind or think about it too much and freak out. 

Well, I did freak out a bit, but not because of Baz. Mostly because of everything else that was happening. 

And then, I hit rock bottom for a while there. I hardly spoke to Baz. I was bitter about what had been taken from me and how the people around me still had what I craved most — magic. (I’ve gotten better with that now. Sure, I'm basically a Normal with wings and a tail, which is weird, but I was never that good with magic anyway. And Baz hardly uses his anymore.)

And he was steady, just waiting for me. Always there to hold my hand or push my hair out of my face or take the empty cider bottle out of my hand. He’d leave soft kisses against my forehead when I was half-asleep. 

(Sometimes he still has to be that for me. Sometimes I’m so worked up and Baz is that guiding and silent force, holding me by the waist, bringing a glass of water to my mouth, smoothing his hands over my wings.)

And America. What can I even say about Baz in America? I thought I had never loved him so much. He was strong and billowing, but underneath, I could see the fear in him. The fear that I’d break up with him. And I was going to. As much as it hurts me to think about it, I almost lost him.

But then, we came back from America. I went back to therapy. Went back to school. Actually spoke to Baz about my shit. 

We still fight. We’re not some perfect couple. And when we fight, I think, is when I think about how much I love him the most. When he’s shouting at me and looking fucking perfect as he does so. When I’ve done something completely moronic and I know that under his sharp glares and frightening expressions of frustration, there’s  _ love there.  _ So much love. 

I look at Baz now. And my heart swells too big for my chest — it hurts. It hurts and I feel like there's eight inches of snow covering my feet, preventing me from stepping anywhere without moisture leaking into my shoes.

“I love you,” I say. 

Baz quirks his eyebrows up at me. He’s settled into our leather armchair, his feet kicked out and resting on my knees. He’s reading some book about economics that I can’t even attempt to understand. “I sure hope so,” he says. “We’ve been married for a while now.” 

I smile and, with the way Baz is looking at me right now, I wonder if he’s thinking about comparing me to the sun. 

He lets me see that cool smile and he leans over to ruffle my hair. Maybe loving Baz Pitch now isn't so much a storm as it is a soft snowfall. 

Calm, cool, soft. Like when you’ve caught the perfect snowflake on your hand. 


End file.
